


Thirstymaker

by florahart



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Archery makes for flex-able pecs, Circus-backstory!Clint, Getting Together, Hard of Hearing Clint Barton, M/M, Remix, Stripper Clint Barton, deep-fried peanut butter, obviously Clint is all about purple glitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-05 19:18:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15870060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart
Summary: Clint's old friend is looking to add a ladies' night at her bar, and it so happens, Clint is available to do improbable dance moves in a tiny purple g-string.  So, you know, good for everyone.





	Thirstymaker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ereshai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ereshai/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Butts, Butts, Butts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3604776) by [ereshai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ereshai/pseuds/ereshai). 



“So how big a deal are you, really?” Clara asks. “With your fancypants new gig that you won’t tell me shit about but is definitely working for The Man doing something goddamn dangerous that brings you home with weird bruises and ouchies.”

Clint laughs. “Hey, I work for some very _particular_ men, using my very particular skills. But how big a deal am I? So much not. Why?” He puts the phone on speaker and sets it on the counter while he rummages in the fridge. Leftover pizza, other leftover pizza, questionable egg rolls from four days ago, and why did he put peanut butter in here anyway? Solid peanut butter that will definitely not spread nicely. Hm. Maybe he could cut it in blocks, batter it, and fry it. 

“Well, I have a little problem, and – wait, no, let me reframe. It’s not, like, a Russian Mobsters problem, or even a Skip Town Before The Bills Come problem. Just, so maybe I bought a bar.”

Clint stops considering deep fried peanut butter, which by the way is one hundred percent Clara’s fault because she always reminds him of Carson’s and specifically of Old Bill, who had had a food stall policy of frying the shit out of every food the Midwest had to offer because the rules of carnival food are simple and finite, and who had also been the only person in the damn place to offer a couple of scrawny brats something vaguely resembling love. And extra food snuck behind the boss’s back, which, when you’re ten and growing, that’s a big deal. “A bar. In the, what, ten weeks since we last spoke, you bought a bar. Like, with beer. Here?”

“Yes here. Yes beer. And liquor. And weird thirstymakin’ snack items to keep people buying the drinks.” (That’s another of the rules of carnival food, so Clint chuckles like he’s supposed to.) “And it’s possible one of the key features of this bar is that there are dancers.”

“Dancers.”

“Strippers. That dance.”

Clint finally puts the peanut butter back in the fridge for future consideration and pulls out the pepperoni and olive. There are only a couple of pieces left, but they still look pretty good and they taste okay cold. “So, you said no Russian Mob issues, and it’s _you_ so I guess there’s not going to be a problem with how you treat the staff…” He munches thoughtfully. “So what do you need?”

“Well, frankly, I need clientele. There’s no reason the place shouldn’t do well, but the previous owners were shitwads that drove a lot of people out and pulling 'em back is hard. As a result, I’m just barely making payroll at the moment -- and I was hoping it'd pick back up a little faster. Location's great, so.”

“And you’re getting by on payroll by kicking in from your share.”

“My share is whatever is left over after I pay the staff. Whom I will pay a rate which allows them to not have to pick between shoes and food for their kids.” Clara’s voice gets a little steely there, and like, there’s no need. Clint knows who she is and why her values are… a lot like his, matter of fact. Only she doesn’t have exactly his talents, and probably SHIELD doesn’t need more barmaids, accountants, or makeup artists, especially ones with the kind of educational background usually most valued in, well, high-wire acts.

“Yeah, no, I get it, just, that’s not sustainable for you, so you need to generate butts in the seats.”

“Exactly.”

“But what does this have to do with my bigdealness? Or lack of.”

“Well, _speaking_ of butts, and being reminded that a butt is a thing you have, I was thinking about doing a ladies’ night...”

“Ooh! And I get to dance?”

“Can you? I mean, I don’t want to fuck up your good-paying gig, Hawkling.”

“Let me check.” (Be real; he’s going to do it regardless, but she isn’t going to let him if he doesn’t pretend to check, right? Plus his current/new chain of command as of three weeks ago is well aware of his checkered past and seems pretty willing to give him room to work, which means worst case he'd get to explain.) “Also, I’m all growed up now. It’s Hawk _eye_ , thank you very much. Hey, what do you know about deep-fried peanut butter?”

She makes a low hmm noise. “Bet _that’d_ be a thirstymaker.”

“What I was thinking. Anyway, I’ll check and get back. When’s your ladies’ night planned?”

“Shooting for the third.”

“K.”

“Crunchy or smooth?”

“Philistine. Crunchy. Talk to you Saturday.” Clint hangs up and polishes off the last crust, then brushes off his hands and picks back up his phone to connect to the HR department’s website. He’s not going to _ask_ if he’s allowed to strip for crumpled g-string dollars, but he is at least going to review for any rules against and determine what loopholes are available for exploitation. After all, SHIELD pays him okay; he’s never going to be a millionaire in the gig, but they pay for his gear and they have a living allowance that more than covers this apartment so his only bills are pizza and bandaids. And t-shirts, because the ones they supply are dumb.

So worst case, he can probably act as a kind of silent partner for a while if Clara needs it. But dancing in a show is not among the cool shit SHIELD has him doing on the regular, so like, if that’s one of the choices? Plus Clara has her pride and all, so.

\--

The other guys she’s rustled up are okay, but none of them can keep up with Clint. That’s probably fair; he was doing OSHA-noncompliant high-wire flips when he was like twelve, and he’s unusually bendy from his work with the acrobats. And he keeps his hand in, okay? It’s never going to be a bad thing if assholes are shooting at his head and he can fix that by climbing something unanticipatable and fitting impossibly through a pet door, right? Not that that has ever been a real thing that has happened. Obviously.

Still, he has to put in a little more teaching time than he wants and tailor the performance down to their current ability level. He can work with them later if they decide to do it again. The show’s still good; he knows his methods are probably not in any textbook but he’s good at explaining things and working with people who are skittish or snotty (same skill set as working with, you know, lions who can eat you, and probably OSHA would _really_ have taken issue with that). But they’re fundamentally okay dancers who have good control and balance (and who look pretty great oiled up), so they'll get the ladies (and some gents, probably) riled up, and once they have the general flow it only takes a couple of longer rehearsals and a final walk-through to get everyone on the same page for pec-flexing.

“And then I’ll freestyle,” he tells them, as they wind up the walk-through. “You guys just stomp and clap and flex whatever seems appropriate.”

“What, so you get all the tips?” One guy whines. His name is Evan, and he’s kind of a douche, but Clint shakes his head anyway. 

“Nah, I’m an equal opportunity kind of guy. I’m doing this as a side gig anyway; I’ll share. Either way, um. Not to sound like a dick, but I kind of guarandamntee you will do better for tips with a share of mine.”

Evan pouts a little, so Clint does a little demo. It involves literally stripping while holding himself horizontal on the pole, and there might be a move that is basically a handstand moonwalking bellydance thing. Like, he can’t see himself because this is a bar, not a barre studio, but he’s pretty sure it will do well because he's done this kind of gig before, and upper-body strength to go with his bendiness is definitely a seller. Evan scowls, but give a curt little nod.

“I mean, I guess we could all freestyle? But maybe I go last?” Now that he's got him calmed down, he's willing to give a little; this is part of being good at explaining shit.

They agree to that, and Clint suggests they quasi-prepare just maybe 30 seconds or so each. His piece will be longer, but again, it’s not like he can’t haul out bartop pirouettes and flair spins along empty stools if there are any, so.

By the thirtieth there’s a plan and Clara’s got advertising humming along with flyers and Facebook ads which are apparently a thing, and if Clint has a couple of weird bruises from times the other guys collided with him (okay and the time he hit a beam harder than he meant to, but all credit to him, he didn’t fall), overall he feels great about the whole deal. He spends the first getting them some seriously glittered-up costumery (Evan is going to hate it, and also the glitter is purple, so Clint considers this a double win), and when they close up shop on the third, Clint hands each of the guys $80 from his own tips and drops his share in Clara’s till when she’s not looking, then goes home, of course finds a mobster in a fucking track suit in his apartment because obviously, discourages his presence with what might be called aggressive negotiations, and goes to bed.

In the morning, he ships out to a sweaty shitshow retrieving something records recently revealed was left in Vietnam in the seventies (not his problem, kind of, but they’re paying him so he guesses maybe it is), and comes home on the ninth with a gash over one ear and by the way one busted-up and one ringing eardrum because the assholes in the vicinity, who didn’t even know the artifact was _there_ and jesus he doesn’t care about the opiates man get as high as you want especially if it means you don't bother anyone, blew shit up next to his head.

Ugh. Also, explosions leave shrapnel and shrapnel can bite him because slicey places in scalps bleed like motherfuckers.

Fortunately, Coulson doesn’t do leaving assets behind and also he’s kind of a badass, so within about forty minutes of extraction and still on the chopper he has a device plugged into his general bioreadings implant magnet and sensors stickied on his head to assess the hearing damage while he (Coulson himself) is mopping up his head after applying a couple of field stitches. When they land there’s a team waiting to start analyzing the data, and while they seem super apologetic about the fact they can’t fully heal extensive auditory damage, he’s mostly just relieved they’re on it in a way that suggests there is no real chance SHIELD is going to dump his ass for acquiring additional brokenness besides that which he came with.

Coulson shows up during his range time to drop a training schedule in his bag (typical); it involves something called ASL training (what the hell), and when he arrives to the first session the class is him, six other specialists he’s worked well with before, and Coulson himself and they all start learning in-depth hand signals together before moving on to legit language; just because Clint can’t and presumably won't hear the full range in which they subvocalize (or a bunch of high tones either) any more doesn’t take him off the roster, because his eyesight is just that good and they can count on him to see in much worse conditions than anyone else. 

“Just in case shit happens to make it even worse,” Coulson says about the rest of the language lessons. “Losing your skillset in the field isn’t on my list for this year. Plus it never hurts to up my language game.”

All Clint knows is, Coulson is ready to learn this to keep him, and probably that’s more commitment than anyone has ever shown to him to go along with the whole room to work awesomeness. He’s down with seeing more, and possibly is developing a deeper crush on the man than he wants to admit.

\--

It’s only a couple of weeks after that before Clara calls again. Clint picks up the phone to his left ear and doesn’t even wait for her to ask – he knows she completely cleaned up last time, partly because she mailed him back his cash in an envelope with a note that said it was less than 1% of her profits for the night anyway and he knows better than to offer charity and she will see he gets paid for his time TYVM. “What day, what time, and who’s dancing with me?”

“Hey, who said I had plans? I mean, you texted that you got banged up, so..”

“Well, yes, but what’s gonna heal is pretty much okay. You can't even see the scar in my hair, not that it's lonely, and everything else was superficial. And it doesn’t affect my ass muscles or my epic upper-body strength, like, at all, so."

"I see you feel positively about your shoulders, then? Probably fair. You sure you're all right?"

"Positive. Hey, you know, though, it was also a ton of fun. Maybe we should just make it a monthly thing. Although, um, I did mention there was the chance that sometimes I might have last minute work, right?”

“You did.”

“So I probably won’t for at least the next few weeks while they fix up some, um, equipment that got torched,” – because this will give R&D time to fine-tune the combination earpiece; they’ve determined they can best protect his remaining hearing in his better ear by specializing the piece to dampen harmful sounds and act as a combination hearing aid and comm device – “so sooner is more reliable.”

He can pretty much hear the eyebrow raise. “Equipment got torched, but there are no horrible burns, bruises, or gashes to work around?”

“This is what stage makeup is for,” Clint says. “It covers tattoos and scars and all sorts of shit. But actually it’s fine. Way better than that time with the awesome hoofprint on my shoulder. Oh hey, did you ever work out the peanut butter thing?”

“I still can't believe they made you go up that night. And, maybe? I’m getting there, anyway. Working on crusting and dipping options. I’ll let you know when I got one for you to taste, see if Bill woulda approved.”

“Please. You know he would. It's food, it's fried, it's crunchy fat on a stick.”

“Okay, I want to know if he’d have actually sold ‘em as thirstymakers, though. So, next couple weeks?”

They agree to a day, and after it’s just as successful as the last time, they decide it’s gonna be a new _thing_. First Fridays, and Clint will meet up with the gang once or twice a week to work on routines and smooth things out so if there’s a day he can’t make it, they’ll still do great.

He does set up an alert in the SHIELD servers to let him know if the policy manual has any relevant updates, and then he makes an appointment with an old contact upstate to gussy up their costume set into something even shinier, even purplier, and even tinier.

He also keeps taking the signing lessons; he's hearing all right now that everything is calibrated and stuff, but it gives him an excuse to hang out with Coulson, who is _also_ still keeping on with it; at this point they can hold entire legitimate conversations and sure, mostly they use it to talk about 084s and the paranormal, but sometimes they talk about other stuff and anyway it's still kind of awesome.

\--

“You know what would be great?” Clint mutters into his comms. He’s up a tree two hundred yards out from the silo they think is being used as the meeting grounds to fence bioweapons. The silo itself is in the middle of nowhere in Montana, and the tree he’s in is pretty much the nearest edge of the treeline, but he’s going to have to go around to the east to get a cleaner look at the guys coming in from the north where there is not a damn road to come in _on_ for fuck’s sake that’s why he’s over here in the first place. “It would be great if these two guards standing under my tree were to be distracted so when I jump across they aren’t going to notice.”

Ten seconds later he sees a quarter-sized rock fly through the air, and then a peacock walks into the clearing a hundred yards away and commences a mating dance. It’s not a real peacock; it’s a hologram and Clint can see the flicker of its edge from up here, but from ground-level it’s apparently not only convincing but hilarious; the two guys below start trying to imitate it, cracking each other up. It’d be pretty funny to Clint as well if they started trying to shoot it, which he’s a little shocked they don’t, but maybe they’re better trained than to make that kind of racket for the lulz. But he doesn't spend a ton of time watching the dance party downstairs because this ruckus is for his benefit and he should take the opportunity.

He jumps across, shimmies along the outstretched branch to the next one over, and eventually, five trees along, stops to make his new perch. 

The peacock eventually cools its jets on the dancing and wanders back into the woods, vanishing, to the dismay of the two guys whose body language as soon as it's gone is instant boredom with a side of hmph. Coulson, behind another tree in the vicinity of the peacock’s entry/exit point, remains unseen, and signs to Clint, _Better?_

“Better, Boss. Showy, but better.”

 _I don’t get a lot of opportunities to strut._ Neither of them knows the sign for strut, but Coulson spells it out, and Clint suppresses a snort. He’s not sure why other people think Coulson is all competence and paperwork, no humor, because honestly. But anyway, now he has the view he needs, and work to do because goddammit that’s Josh Duvall and his presence here implies badness they aren’t as prepared for as Clint would like. He relays the information, then suppresses another snort at Coulson’s expression, which falls somewhere between _motherfucker_ and _why is this my life_.

At least his job isn’t boring.

\--

It’s just nine days later, in the fourth month of the new schedule (although Clint did actually miss the gig the second time because apparently it is not possible to get from Azerbaijan to New York in under two hours once you finally track down the last asshole in an international kiddie porn ring and take an ice pick to his nuts) when Clint walks (okay, prances, maybe) out onto the stage and spots Coulson at a table.

So that’s a little unexpected. He almost drops a step, but he covers okay and tips his sparkly hat to a guy four tables over as he gets in position for the big pants-removal line. He’s not mad to see him or anything, but he’s a little surprised to have been successfully followed. Although, okay, regularization of routines is kind of chapter 1 in the spy handbook about how people make it easy to follow them, so possibly having a set performance date and an easy to remember practice schedule suggests someone like Coulson probably could do it without breaking even the tiniest of sweats.

But… Clint glances at him between passes with the scarf over his head, and like, he is. Sweating. A little, just a glint of moisture at his hairline and between his collarbones. He’s nursing a beer and he’s ditched the tie and opened up the collar of his shirt. Clint’s seen him more dressed down, but only in mission situations, and that’s super different. Dressed down in field gear is not the same as dressed down in office gear, and chest hair in the field is just a feature of a human body; in the vee of this particular open shirt it’s kind of devastating.

So what he’s doing here is something of an open question, although it’s quickly apparent he’s watching Clint, specifically. Watching and occasionally taking a sort of fine-line-between-desperate-and-controlled gulp of his beer.

Well, fine, Mr. Peacock, Clint will strut a little too. 

He shakes his ass and pulls out every stop he has once the shared choreo is done. This gains the interest of a shrieky, grabby, super drunk bride-to-be who evidently wants a piece and based on the expressions of everyone around is shrill in letting him know (not that he hears her all that well; conveniently her pitch is in his sweet spot. Sour spot? Whatever). But in any case he’s not worried; Clara hires security and takes it seriously so as close as she gets is “enough to toss dollars,” and that’s the point of the ass-flexing in the first place so, all good. He goes back to the pole with his bellydancing skills, and brings all the flexibility he possesses to putting the show over the top. He’s dripping sweat by the time he’s done – the work isn’t actually as acrobatic as the tree stunt or that time over the chemical vats in Hell’s Kitchen, but he’s a lot more naked than he generally is in the field and also a lot more aware of the rush of being watched and admired, so puddles it is. When he’s done, he holds a pose a tiny bit longer than absolutely necessary, winks at Clara, and tips an imaginary hat to the crowd before he ducks out through the back curtain. 

He towels off, rolls his eyes at Evan keeping an eye on the cash being scooped up off the stage floor, and tosses a purple robe over his shoulders, then shoves his feet into Clara’s daisy-strap flip-flops because they’re convenient and he doesn’t want to walk barefoot on the bar’s actual sticky floor and heads out to grab a couple beers and catch Coulson before he leaves. He has a question to ask.

“So, you found me out, huh, Boss?” Clint sets the beer on the table then turns the chair around and straddles it, letting his covered shoulders be impressive as he crosses his arms on the back and watches Coulson closely; it’s still pretty loud in here but the light will be enough to help him out with passive lip-reading for an assist.

Coulson is slightly startled, even if it’s only that he lifts his eyebrows about an eighth of an inch. It's satisfying, because obviously Clint is Hawkeye and clearly Coulson should know he'll have been spotted in half a second flat. It's not like he's hiding a damn thing. "Just a routine check, Barton,” he says. “Your off-duty activities are your own business. We always investigate when our assets take on second jobs, to make sure there isn’t anything going on that might cause a conflict of interest." It makes sense; Clint knows SHIELD pays well, and if someone needs a lot more to live on that could totally mean trouble. Blackmail, debt, other compromising positions…Sure, makes sense. 

Clint nods. "It’s not really a second job," he says. "More like a favor for a friend. I know it’s not the kinda thing SHIELD agents usually do "

"As long as you aren’t being coerced," Coulson begins. Clint shakes his head. "No money troubles?"

"Nah, you guys pay me more than enough. Seriously, just helping out a friend." Clint points at Clara and waves back when she raises a hand. "Clara and me both grew up in Carson’s. She bought this place off some dipshit, and she’s trying to change its rep, make it a success. I figure I can shake my ass once in a while for a good cause like that."

Coulson purses his lips and, if Clint’s not mistaken suppresses a need to gulp at the mention of ass-shaking. “As I said, SHIELD doesn’t care about your off-duty activities. No one needs to know, if you prefer.”

"Hell no! Clara needs a wider client base. If the thought of seeing me practically naked gets SHIELD butts in here, I’ll put up posters in the junior agents’ lounge myself." Clint’s not kidding about that. If Coulson unambiguously knows and Clint’s definitely not in hot water because of some stupid unstated rule, he’s fully down for taking ruthless advantage of the lounge bulletin board, but Coulson’s shaking his head.

“No need. Just tell a couple of the right people and the word will spread.” Oh, well or that.

“Practical. I like it.” Clint pauses. “So, you could have just asked. About what I was doing here, I mean.”

“I could,” Coulson agrees.

“But instead you came to watch.” Clint takes a swallow of his beer, largely to be sociable because beer isn’t among his favorite things but it's weird to make someone drink alone and he seriously anti-likes whiskey.

“I did. Sorry.”

He seems concerned with a little crinkle between his eyebrows, so Clint asks, “Sorry why?”

“It might have been a bit of an overstep?” The crinkle deepens, which is distressing.

Clint’s about to follow up and explain it’s really, really not any kind of overstep when Clara arrives at the table with one plate and two forks. “First night on the menu,” she says, putting down it down. She grins. “Your fault, so you shoulda been first, but I didn’t want you to perform thirsty.” 

Clint looks at the square of fried batter-covered slab on the plate and the little pleated paper ketchup cup of what looks like Hershey’s sauce, and laughs. “Well, okay." He winks at Coulson. "Try it with me?” He cuts a corner off the oozing thick peanut butter and dips it into the chocolate, then holds it up, dripping on the plate while he waits for Coulson to do the same. “Deep fried peanut butter,” he explains. 

Coulson gets a forkful and holds it up as well, examining it, and then holds his fork out to Clint. Clint shrugs, opens wide, and holds his out, too. It’s sweet, salty, greasy, and kind of objectively terrible and subjectively awesome. Also, the breading is graham-crackery and there's some kind of maple-cinnamon thing going on in the peanut butter itself, and that’s because Clara is a genius, and now he needs the rest of that beer.

After a minute, he says, “So I was going to ask if you were here because you wanted to ogle me, and if so, whether that might mean you’d agree to dinner, but I think we just fed each other bites of dessert so we might have just gotten married anyway.”

Coulson considers that for a minute, then says, “I think I’d like dinner before we make it official. Also, who fries peanut butter?”

“Circus folks, obviously. And we eat it, too, because we stick together.” He takes another forkful of the bar and offers it, getting one in return. "Get it, sticky?" 

Coulson opens his mouth to object to that, closes it, shakes his head, and takes another sip of his beer.

"Anyway, you know, bar food is like circus food: designed to make you need a drink so people will pay eight bucks for a beer. Or a soda. Whatever."

"Oh, is that why I'm feeling like I need a cold beverage and maybe a cold shower?" Coulson looks Clint up and down. "I thought it was something else, maybe."

Clint grins. "Maybe some of each. I did notice you seemed a little heated, before. But I think we can do better than a cold shower to soothe what ails ya. If that's where you meant to be headed, I mean." He bites his lip for a second until Coulson licks his own, because okay maybe that's rushing things a _little_? Or not; they're adults, right? Or at least, Coulson is, and Clint tries. Coulson seems opposite of offended, anyway.

Clara, at the bar, is making obvious and ridiculous _go get ‘em_ gestures, and Clint directs Coulson’s attention with his eyes. “That’s her approving, by the way, so I think we should run with it. Do I have time to get dressed?”

“You better.” Coulson says. He adds, in small, barely noticeable gestures, _so I can undress you later_.

Which Clint is extremely on board with, and which makes his current bite of peanut butter lodge in his throat. He swallows hard, snags the water on the adjacent table to chase it with, and stands up. “Be right back. And Coulson?”

“Barton.”

He shrugs out of the robe and tosses it. “I better catch you watching my ass while I go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Since this is a remix, if you read the original some things may seem familiar: the premise of Clint's friend Clara buying a bar, and, a chunk of dialogue toward the end. Besides that, I re-set the timeline a bit, and involved Clara and Clint's shared history somewhat more.


End file.
